He hadn't meant for it to go so far.

It was to help his people that he had tried to make them stronger.
Make himself stronger.

But it backfired.

Backfired badly.

Norway coughed and harked up blood.
His lungs felt as if they were filled with smoke.

The pain was excruciating, and his old scar from the night on the fire so many years ago burnt anew.

He had made a mistake.
He had tried to do something he shouldn't have done.

Using magic for personal gain and power never went the way you'd hoped; and now he felt like he had truly doomed them all.

The coughing eventually subdued and he could finally stand upright, his room a blackened mess of soot and charred wood.
Norway coughed up a handful of blood, wiping it off on the charred walls with a frown.

An omen of what was to come.

Outside his people were still continuing like they always had, rushing about with their daily business.
Norway watched for hours as the sun sank beneath the horizon and darkness rolled across his lands.
He had unleashed something he shouldn't have.
But he did not know what yet.

She came with a ship.

A trade-ship that was supposed to bring goods.
The goods did come.
But so did the rats.

And the plague.

'Pesta' was her name.
Norway saw her walk along the streets with her broom and her rake.
The very sight of her made him fear for his life down to the very core of his bones.
She was not merciful.
She would not spare him.

And she didn't.

His people fell ill.
And ill.
And ill.

Try as he might with all that he could; Norway couldn't help.

He awoke one night to the old lady sitting by his bedside; toothless grin and hollow eyes staring him down like the prey he knew he was.

"No," he whispered "please don't," his voice was hoarse and wavering. Norway tried to move; but his body was too cold to move. Too scared. In too much pain.

She said nothing, just smiled.
And then left.
His floorboards creaking as she descended the stairs.

He never heard her open the front door, but she didn't need doors like he did.

Norway did not sleep well after that.

It didn't take long before he noticed the little boils on his body.
No amount of scrubbing, washing or ointments did the trick.
They grew.
And grew.
Multiplied and became worse.

He watched in horror as his body rapidly began looking like his people's.
His joints hurt.
It was hard to move.

And the boils only grew and grew.

He awoke one morning to discover his toes and finger tips were as black as coal themselves.

Had he been a human he would have died.
Had he been a human he would have ended his painful existence there and then.
But he couldn't.

Norway could hardly care for himself, stumbling and muttering to himself in his own home.
However; he refused help from anyone.
Refused to let people see him so sick.
So dying.

Days passed and still he could not heal.
But he could also not die.

The delirium came and went.

It was hard to differentiate if the creatures he saw were real or just imagination.
At one point he though his father was standing by his bedside; but when he looked again there was nothing.

Even when it became hard to breathe; death would not relieve him.

After months of suffering Norway couldn't bear it any more.

Wrapping himself up in clothes as best he could; hiding his hands and face he set off.
He couldn't do anything for himself.
The sickness was killing his people and thus himself.

The only way to make himself better was to make his people better too.
Or so he hoped.

He walked in Pesta's footsteps, tried to undo the horror she caused with good.
Sometimes he succeeded.

Other times he did not.

And still he trod on, watching in fear as the black colour crept higher and higher up.
Like and old man he hobbled along old roads that seemed far to empty and far too untravelled for his liking.

And still Pesta carried on.
A rake here.
A broom here.

Norway could do nothing to predict what tool she would use.
If he was lucky she used the rake; let a few people live.
But far too many times did he come to a village where she had swept her broom and killed them all.

Norway buried more people those two years than he ever had done before in his life.

Eventually his limbs gave up and would not carry him further.
He wept that night.
Wept for his own stupidity and greed.
Wept for his people and the pain he had caused them.

Even when Pesta had left and his people stopped falling dead like flies; Norway's fingers remained darkened and stiff.
Even when there was a glimmer of hope for the future was it hard to breathe.

The impact on his people, his land and himself was almost fatal; and Norway welcomed the help of Denmark with open arms.

Finally he had a place to rest. To recover.

And while he did recover; he never forgot or fully forgave himself.
All he could think was that truly there had been some divine protection – because his people were still soldiering on despite empty villages and broken families.

Yet it was hard to forget.

For years he refused to be seen without socks or gloves; the hideous discolouration on his fingers and toes clinging to him even when his joints loosed and the pain subdued.
Even when sensation returned and he no longer felt as cold; the dark stains clung on like marks of a sinner.

He feared to touch his little brother; scared the young boy would somehow catch the sickness – long gone as it was.

Even when the dark colour gave way to his pale skin; he could see the traces.
Little scars and odd marks that had no been there before.
Humans took no notice; they didn't know.
To them he was just another man with callused hands from years of labour.

Norway knew differently. So he continued to hide the scars as best he could under heavy clothes, layers of fabric and gloves as often as it was possible.

Only when he was alone did it all come off so he could see them himself; repent for the damage he truly felt was his fault and his fault alone.
Every scar earned in battle had been with pride.
The ones now marring his pale skin where only bore with shame and disgust.

A.N:
I have a rather large book on magic and spells and if there's one thing that's repeated almost every chapter it's: Magic comes at a price.
A huge price if you try to use it for evil.

As explained in a little headcanon ficlet I wrote on my tumblr.

I wanted to elaborate on some of it; and the black plague in 1349 was perfect for it.
(some say it started in 1348. it's debatable)
Anyway; the terrible plague that wiped 50% of Norway's population out (if not more) and cast the country into a 'recession' of sort. The government and royal family struggled to get enough taxes as there was no one to get taxes from and the whole country became rather poor.
The Norwegian royal family was 'fused/united' with the Swedish in 1319, the Danish in 1380 and completely died out in 1387.
Norway joined the Kalmar Union in 1397.

For a personified Nation I imagine this was a huge blow to his strength, power and everything else you could think of.
There are several theories for why Norway was struck so hard as it was; but for the sake of this ficlet I wanted to play with the idea that it was partly due to Norway's own greed. Wanting to be stronger and failing; using magic where he shouldn't.
Paying a very high price he would come to regret for centuries.

The character "Pesta" is actually a personified character of the Black Plague brought to 'life' as a humanoid person in various drawings and books; her most well known appearance is as she appears in Theodor Kittelsen's work.
It was said this old woman carried a rake or a broom with her as she went from village to village and town to town.
If she had a rake; a few people survived.
If she had a broom; no one survived.

While she is fictional; she was a great metaphor at the time and even today; and I felt that maybe Norway as a nation would be able to see this ragged old woman causing death all around her.
Especially when it's canon he can see things most others can not see.